


The Boy with the Unspeakable Name

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the chamber of Secrets
Genre: AU, Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternating Perspectives, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Character Study, Comedy, During Canon, Friendship, Gen, Good Tom Riddle, Harry Potter AU, POV Harry Potter, POV Severus Snape, POV Tom Riddle, Past Tense, Redemption, Sane Tom Riddle, Teenage Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle Redemption, Young Tom Riddle, third person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them.Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?
Relationships: Harry Potter & Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Severus Snape & Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape & Tom Riddle
Comments: 48
Kudos: 48





	1. Fire Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry's age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way.  
> Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn't have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea.
> 
> Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn't write it because I was afraid I'd bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn't finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I'd just go for it. I'm still afraid I won't finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven't finished any of my other, shorter, long fics...) but I didn't want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don't finish it, at least I'll have something to show for it!
> 
> All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue...please please please consider commenting. Writing fics like this is a lot of effort, and while I do write them for my own enjoyment...it is still very difficult for me to find the motivation to continue them. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me gaining the motivation to continue, and leaving the fic behind. 
> 
> Also, if there are any artists who are interested in drawing cover art for this fic don't hesitate to say so!! You can comment so below, or message me on tumblr ([@i-prefer-the-term-antihero](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/i-prefer-the-term-antihero), or [@antihero-writings](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/antihero-writings))!!

He didn’t know how fitting it was. 

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood. 

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words _avada kadavra!_ hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all. 

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory. 

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping. 

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow. 

And the world did feel hollow. 

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding _remember?!_ , praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later. 

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too. 

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace. 

Everything burned because something about _feeling_ , sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia. 

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes. 

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a bearded man. 

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now. 

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum. 

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it. 

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be. 

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young. 

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on. 

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled more than any of the living or dead. 

His mind started to provide theories about the scene, 

Theory one: 

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage. 

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it. 

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all. 

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and _she_ had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake. 

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary. 

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding _from_ something? 

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was Tom’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was Tom’s, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps _he_ was the jealous and angry party here. 

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snakes venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed. 

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it. 

Six(c): Tom killed her. 

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly. 

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: _Tom Marvolo Riddle._

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too. 

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember. 

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth. 

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know. 

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic— like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver. 

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved. 

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming. 

Tom stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. 

Hmm…What to ask? _‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’_

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite. 

“And…If you _were_ me, what _would_ you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different? 

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll _never_ be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response. 

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory. 

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself. He was just a kid, did he/this harry potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys? Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young. Why did he hate him so much? It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward. 

“ _Stay back_!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog. 

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words. 

Another step. 

He held up the sword. 

“ _I’m warning you._ ” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real. 

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl. 

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl. 

He leaned in closer.

“ _DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!_ ” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features. 

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because _what_ he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

Tom backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch gross enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now. 

Yup, six(c) seemed pretty likely. 

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive. 

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense. 

He could tell he wanted to. 

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere. 

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary? 

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on making this chapter longer, and finishing the scene, and having the next chapter be Harry's...but it was more difficult to edit than I thought, so I decided to cut it up to make it easier to edit, as well as for you guys to read.
> 
> I might do some editing on this chapter later...I feel like I repeat myself a lot in it, haha!
> 
> Once again, I would really appreciate it if you'd consider commenting! <3


	2. And Cauldron Bubble

The boy blinked, his expression shifting, fire and fury leaving his gaze for confusion. 

“Who’s…who’s Tom Riddle?” he echoed, his voice soft and incredulous. 

Harry jerkily stood, switched the sword to his left hand, and pulled a stick out of his right pocket, pointing both at him. Tom knew he shouldn’t laugh, still, the fact that he thought that would be any threat when he had a sword was rather ridiculous. 

“‘Who’s Tom Riddle?’!” the words were stiff. 

“That _is_ what I asked.” Tom replied in a bored way.

“Is this…is this some sort of joke? …No, no it can’t be a joke—” He took a step forward, poking the air with the stick. “—because you don’t have a sense of humor! You don’t have a sense of-of _anything_!” he advanced on him, pointing both his ‘weapons’ as he did, and Tom took a step back.

He didn’t know much about himself but he guessed he was right about the sense of humor. 

“You tell me.”

“No.” Harry’s voice and hands were shaking with rage. “No, _you_ tell _me_. You tell me _exactly_ what’s going on here, _Tom_.” He spat the name as if it was the vilest insult he could muster, like the word was as repulsive to him as ‘Harry Potter’ was to him, like some primal part of him _must_ hate it—

Ah, so it _was_ his diary, his name. But why did hatred course through him at the sound of it too?

—“Before I blast you to smithereens!” He held the sword higher, and pointed the stick.

“I’d really like to. But, I’m going to have a bit of trouble doing that without memory, now aren’t I?”

“Very _funny_ ,” he spat like it was the least funny thing he’d heard all day. “Let’s just skip the pleasantries and get to the part where you try to kill me, alright?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a vile, evil little cockroach”—spit was flying from his mouth now—“who doesn’t care about _anyone_ but yourself, and kills innocent girls in your spare time—!” The words caught in his throat and his weapons lowered slightly, his eyes clouding. 

Tom blinked, taking a step back, his eyes circling back to the girl, as if she had been placed into a different light.

So he _had_ been the one to kill her. But…why? He wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it, but there was some pride in the back of his mind at the thought…but—(why was this the most unfamiliar sensation yet?)—his stomach twisted in knots too…and he just wanted it to _stop_. 

Harry jabbed the stick at Tom’s chest “No. You don’t get to touch her, you don’t get to talk about her, you don’t get to …you don’t get to even so much as _look_ at her!”

Tom raised his hands and his eyebrows. _Someone_ had anger issues.

“You _won_.” He took a step forward, making Tom step back. “Why are you still here? Do you want to toy with me before you run me through? Fine, torture me. it’s not like you can do anything worse than you already have.”

He’d won? Killing someone, losing his memory, standing unarmed at the mercy of his enemy’s sword wasn’t the picture of victory to him. What sort of battle had they been waging? What game had they been playing? 

“What do you _want_? If you’re going to kill me, just do it already.”

“I don’t know what the person I was before I woke up without a clue where I am, what happened, what I’m doing here, who you are, or who I am would have done.” His temper rose in his voice. “But right now I have no intentions to kill a young schoolboy I have no memory of.” 

“You’re _lying_! You…you… _you snake_!” he lunged at Tom and pressed the stick hard into his ribs. “Age doesn’t matter to you—young, old, you’ll spill blood no matter where you go, or who stands against you! Don’t think for a _second_ I believe your’re feeling merciful!”

Tom sighed. This was getting rather tedious. 

“I told you” —He lifted his hand slowly to the stick— “no matter who I was, or what I would have done, before” —He wrapped his fingers around it— “I don’t remember enough to make any such decisions now.”

They grappled for the stick, it shaking between them with effort. Harry was stronger than he looked…or maybe Tom was just weaker. Harry bit his lip till it bled, apparently waging some great mental battle. 

“Fine.” The word was solid as a rock dropping from a cliff. He managed to win the stick back, as he seemed to get an idea. “You don’t remember? Let’s go to Dumbledore.”

That name too shot burning, sourceless emotion though him. Pure, uncut animosity, though this time there was another emotion interwoven into it; a powerful, inexplicable, unavoidable, fear. It crawled all over his chest and dugs its nails into his heart 

Why did he have such a thing against names? 

“…I’d like to protest, but, as I have no idea who or what a ‘Dumbledore’ is, I don’t have much way of objecting, do I?”

He blinked, surprise finally tackling the anger in his eyes. “You—You really don’t remember, do you?” he said simply.

“As I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.” Tom sighed. 

His weapons lowered, his eyes widening. 

“So… you’re not going to try to kill me?”

“As you happen to be the one with the sword, and a…whatever that is,” he gestured to the stick, knowing there was probably more to it than met the eye, “that would be highly unwise of me.”

Harry held up the stick, glancing from it to Tom. “‘You don’t know what this is?”

“Unless it’s a stick, then no.”

A smile crept onto his face. “You _really_ don’t remember.” 

Tom gritted his teeth. He hated how smug he sounded. 

“Now that you’re aware I am, in fact, telling the truth, would you care to explain what’s going on?”

“No.” he said simply. He could tell he was trying to keep himself from grinning. “I wouldn’t care for that, _Tom_.”

Tom’s hands curled into fists at the sound of his own name. Why did all the names spoken so far, including his _own_ send sparks through his veins? 

“Dumbledore will explain whatever you need to know. Until then it would be unwise”—he could tell he was mocking him—“for me to reveal anything.”

“So, is there a reason we’re dawdling? Why don’t you take me to see this _Dumbledore_ fellow now?”

Harry looked back at the girl, his eyes swimming, still that loyal dog, undesiring to leave his master. 

“Yeah… I probably should.”

Instead of taking him for a nice stroll back out through the chamber he dug the tip of both the stick and the sword into his back, forcing him to walk forward. 

“Couldn’t we be civil about this? There’s no reason for me to try to escape.”

“We’re fresh out of civility today, sorry!” He said like he had been handing out lemonade at the stand.

Whoever built this chamber was _really_ into snakes. As they stepped over the lifeless coils of the huge, once-living snake Tom saw that even more stone snakes lined the walls than he previously understood. And as they continued making their way out, the giant, shed skin of the once-living snake came into view, lying on the grimy floor. 

After walking some ways, the sound of shifting rocks reached their ears, and they came to a part of the chamber which had apparently caved in. 

“If you say a _single_ word,” Harry hissed into his ear, “I’ll hex you till you can’t even remember how to speak.” He took the sword and stick from his back and walked in front of him. 

“Harry!” a voice spoke from behind the rocks. “You’re alive! Thank goodness! Lockhart’s in a bit of a bind. Spell backfired. He doesn’t remember anything!”

Did he say _spell_? 

And what were the chances of two amnesiacs in the same place? 

His head popped up from behind the rocks. The boy had red hair and freckles like the girl did, but he was tall taller and more gangly. When his eyes fell upon Tom he interrupted his train of thought to ask, 

“Who’s the ruddy hell is this?”

Harry looked up at Tom, as if both daring him to speak, and wondering how he would explain it.

“He…he got trapped in the Chamber. I-I’ll explain later.” Harry’s words were constricted.

“And where’s Ginny? Is she okay?”

Ah, finally he got the name of the corpse. Not to mention finally there was a name that didn’t send hatred to him. 

“U-Um—” Harry seemed about to say something, but at the question his words sputtered, stalled, and died, his eyes freezing wide. 

Considering how similar they looked, Tom guessed she was probably this boy’s sister. 

Well. That was unfortunate. No wonder Harry didn’t know what to say. 

“Uhh…I…” he breathed, trying to restart the engine, but only making rasping sounds, “Sh-She’s…” he looked at Tom and that fire blazed once more. 

The new boy’s face blanched. “Where’s…” he swallowed, “Where- _Where is she?_ ” The question became a pained and desperate plea.

He scrambled madly over the rocks, falling onto the ground as he came over them. He quickly recovered and rushed towards his friend, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“Harry?” His voice was trembling, a pot starting to boil, “ _Where is she?!_ ”

Harry took a step back, his face distorting with pain, shooting his gaze towards the ground, something in his eyes dying. “She….” The word fell limp and lonely at his feet. 

“ _Where is she?!_ ” He shook his friend, “ _Goddamnit, Harry!_ ” His voice sat on the border of hysteria, his cry now echoing throughout the chamber like a madman’s howl, “ _WHERE’S MY SISTER?_ ” 

But Harry didn’t have to say anything. The boy shoved him, his legs carrying him as fast as they could through the chamber, his footfalls the ticking of seconds he had left to believe she was alive. He screamed the corpse’s name as he ran, like it was his only hope of calling her back to this side of the veil. 

Harry watched him go, his eyes slowly drifting to the ground, as if lost at sea, glazed and hollow. 

It was a moment later when they heard the screaming; a deep, guttural, screaming. Wordless wails, threats, questions, and most of all her name. Just her name. 

And it didn’t stop. 

It was then that Harry looked over at Tom, and the force of the hate in his eyes made him physically step back. That emerald fire hotter than it was even before, the words _You did this to her_ woven deep within his gaze, as searing as a brand upon him.

“Poor chap, do hope everything will be alright,” another voice cut in, a little too nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t truly understood the situation, or heard what they heard. They jerked their heads up to look at him. 

A handsome blonde man had appeared on the other side of the rocks, smiling genially at them. He put his hands on his hips, peering out the chamber behind them. “Odd sort of place this, isn’t it?” He looked at the two boys. “Do you live here?”

This must be other who lost his memory—perhaps the boys were rather adept at stealing memories?

They climbed over the rocks, through the hole to the other side. 

The orange bird fluttered in behind them, then circled, front of Harry, waving its long, golden tail feathers at him. Harry looked uncertainly at it, before turning to the man, then to Tom.

“I think he wants us to grab hold.”

“You’re kidding, right? What do you expect—?” 

“What did I say about saying a word?” Harry snapped, and Tom quieted.

“Fawkes isn’t an ordinary bird,” Harry explained, petting his feathers before, turning to them.

“We’ve got to hold on to each other.” 

He reached up to grasp its impressive tail feathers, then turned to them, looking Tom up and down as touching him was the worst punishment he could ever think of. 

“Professor Lockhart—er, that’s you—” He pointed to the blonde man. “You hold on to my robes, Tom, grab his hand. Fawkes will carry us out.” 

“I hate to criticize your methods,” Tom risked speaking up, “but I highly doubt that bird will be able to carry the three of us.”

“Er, yes, I have several concerns as well.” The Professor looked the bird, then Harry, up and down, as if questioning his sanity. 

Harry glared at Tom. 

“Just do it.”

Tom knew there was no point questioning him further. Harry tucked the sword and hat into his belt, and they did as they were told. The bird started flapping its wings, but instead of beating them madly with no results, as Tom expected, they were quickly lifted off into the air, a strange sort of lightness spreading through them as they flew through the pipe.

“Amazing! Amazing!” the Professor exclaimed as the wind rushed by them “This is just like magic!”

Tom had a thought that he was probably closer to the truth than he realized. 

The chill air whipped about them as the bird flew them out of the chamber, and dropped them back on solid ground. 

They were in a bathroom, to be exact. At least, it appeared to be. It was a rather large one made of stone, a large basin of sinks behind them. It was less dreary than the chamber, but the floor was covered in water, so it was in competition, at least as far as dampness went. 

This was a very strange world he had awoken to indeed. 

Yet again There was the sound of more crying. Tom was getting very sick of the noise.

“You’re alive.” A high pitched voice said. 

“There’s no need to sound so disappointed.” Harry grunted, flicking slime off his glasses and hitting Tom in the face with it. Tom glared at him and flicked it back off. 

“Oh, well, I’d just been thinking. If you had died, you’d have been welcome to share my toilet.”

Tom looked up and raised an eyebrow at these strange words. 

A wispy, transparent girl with pigtails and glasses floated above them. Her sad face was familiar, yet, like with everything else, he couldn’t place her. 

Was she a ghost? Was that what he had been before? 

When she saw Tom she gasped, her face going whiter than it was before (if that was possible).

“Tom…?” she whispered. 

Harry looked at him, his eyes widening. 

She rushed towards him, “Is that really you Tom? No…it can’t be. Unless…” She examined him quizzically. “What are you doing here? How are you back? …Are you a ghost too?” 

He stood up: he barely knew her and he already found her annoying. 

“Tom?” Harry answered for him. “You must be mistaken. No, no, this isn’t a Tom, this is uhhhh…Marv. Yeah, _Marv._ ”

Tom raised an eyebrow at Harry, and Harry gave him that _not-a-word_ look. 

“Oh…” she looked down, slightly disappointed. 

The bird twirled above them, glowing slightly gold in the dark. Harry turned back to Tom, then without warning grabbed the hood on the back of his robes—(which was still damp from the chamber floor, mind you)—and pulled it too far over his face. 

Tom pushed it back so he could see, glaring at Harry.

“Keep that up.” He pointed to it. 

“…Why?”

“Because nobody wants to see your ugly face. Now let’s continue on.”

Tom obeyed—(though made sure to give him his sharpest glare yet)—guessing there was probably a more reasonable answer he simply wasn’t telling him.

“Now, that’s not very nice!” Professor Lockhart piped up. “I’d say this young man is rather handsome!”

“I’m gonna have to ask you to be quiet too, Professor.

“Come on.” Harry got up, beckoning them—(without offering his hand to Tom)—and they followed after the bird, out of the bathroom, and into a hall.

They appeared to be in a castle of sorts; the walls and floors were made of stone, rugs and tapestries organized upon them, suits of armor standing at regular intervals along the walls. Pictures littered the walls, and he swore he could see them moving, hear them…talking to each other? 

They descended a staircase, which proceeded to move as they got on it. Harry wasn’t the least bit surprised about this fact. 

“A _very_ odd place indeed…” Lockhart muttered more to himself than anyone else, staring wildly around, his hand to his mouth. 

Harry beckoned them to a door to the side, and opened it. For a moment they just stood on the threshold in silence, probably looking very strange, covered in the muck, slime, and blood from the chamber. 

There were a woman and man, both with red hair—(like the corpse, and the boy’s)—sitting by the fire. Likely her mother and father. The woman turned to Harry, her eyes clouded by fear and question, like the other boy did, though she did not yet voice anything. An old woman in a green dress, with a harsh, wrinkled face, and a tight bun on her head sat in the corner, pushing her glasses up, looking at them expectantly. An old man with a more gently lined face, a long white hair and beard, sitting at the desk in the center with the tips of his fingers together looked down at them over his half-moon spectacles. 

When his blue eyes fell upon the hooded Tom hate shot through him, more powerful than ever before, a living thing rearing its head, a snake within him that wanted nothing more than to bite at his throat again and again and again.

“I’d like to speak to Professor Dumbledore.” Harry’s voice cut through the silence. “Alone.” Then he added “Please.”

The women both looked uneasy—(the red-haired one much more so)—as they turned to the old man, who nodded and waved them off. 

But before they could leave Harry interrupted. 

“Professor Lockhart’s in a bad way—memory spell gone wrong. I can explain later—or, Ron can. Someone should probably take him to the hospital wing.”

The old woman looked at him quizzically, but took the man’s arm and said “Come now, Gilderoy.”

“Erm…” He looked around the room. “Well…alright.” Before they left, the door creaking shut, leaving a heavy silence. 

Dumbledore’s piercing eyes flicked from Harry to the hidden Tom. 

“Very well, Harry,” he said calmly, “what is it you wish to speak with me about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who left comments on the previous chapter!! It really does encourage and motivate me a lot <3 <3 
> 
> If you could take the time to comment on this chapter too I would be more than appreciative!!!!
> 
> I'm really glad I could finish up editing this chapter fast, since it was so connected to ch1 (like I said I was thinking of just posting them together), but, unfortunately, I can pretty much guarantee the other chapters won't come out this fast, haha!!


	3. Like a Hell-Broth Boil and Bubble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to those who left comments on the previous chapter!! It really does encourage and motivate me a lot <3 <3 
> 
> Also once again, if you could take the time to comment on this chapter too I would be extremely appreciative!!!

Harry marched up to the desk and set the pile of fabric and sword clattering upon the wood. Dumbledore’s eyes traveled along them, picking up clues as they went, though he didn’t touch them. 

“Sir, with all due respect…prepare yourself.” 

“Forgive me, Harry, but I am an old man, and one of the benefits, as well as tragedies of age is that very few things surprise you.”

“Hold on to that thought, Sir.”

Harry took the tip of Tom’s hood pulled it back. 

The moment Tom’s face was visible, Dumbledore shot up as if he’d sat on a spring, knocking back his chair, its legs making a screeching noise on the wood, his face going white. A stick, much like Harry’s, aimed at Tom’s chest before he saw him dig in his pocket, and his grip was so tight his knuckles were white too, though his hand was perfectly steady. 

His blue eyes blazed like Harry’s had green, but Harry’s gaze was turbulent, poisoned waters, and the calmness behind this blaze was something far more disturbing. This gentility pierced through him, creating a hole through which he could peer into his very soul. 

Tom got the sudden urge to bite at him, as if he were some animal with venomous fangs. Instead, he simply put his hands in his pockets and said, 

“Well, I appear to be quite popular, don’t I?” 

Dumbledore looked from Tom to Harry, confusion added to the never-dwindling flames, his grip still poised on what Tom hoped it wasn’t stupid to think was a wand. 

“He doesn’t remember anything. Or at least…he _claims_ not to.” Harry gave him the side-eye. “Didn’t even know his name till I told him.” When Dumbledore said nothing he added; “Well, he didn’t try to kill me—at least not after he woke up—and he did let me take him to you. So make of that what you will, Sir.”

Dumbledore walked around his desk to get closer to him, never taking the wand away; then circled Tom like an animal deciding if he was worth pouncing on, and put it to his throat, tipping his chin up with it, examining him. Tom hoped his own eyes were as venomous as theirs. 

Closer up Tom realized that blue wasn’t calm. It was Harry’s turbulent waters frozen over in the midst of their raging; the storm ever ready to break out of its icy prison and wreak more havoc upon the world than any of them could bear. But, for now, they simply stared at each other across the too-quiet tundra, two rivals frozen in time, waiting for something to break. 

“How is it that a young Tom Riddle finds himself at my school?” His voice was level, and altogether too soft, but behind it was the sound of slowly weakening ice.

Why did he find himself without memory in the presence of his enemies?

“You still have the diary, right?” Harry asked. 

Tom didn’t want to lose the staring contest, wanted to see what kind of thing would break out, but dug the mangled diary out of his pocket all the same. Before he could put it on the desk, Dumbledore took it from his hand, and his grip was not harsh, though rather direct. 

Tom couldn’t see why the object was so telling, what with all the _nothing_ it contained.

Flipping through what pages were left of it, Dumbledore’s eyes ever flickered to Tom, his wand never wavering. When he saw the name at the front, recognition dawned on him, and his icy gaze rested again upon its owner.

He was starting to hate those eyes. 

Tom was more than ready to hear the explanation for this whole situation—he was being very patient, if he said so himself—but none came. Instead Dumbledore looked at Harry, his gaze much softer and asked, more quietly than before, the question trailing off,

“I presume Miss Weasley is…?” 

Harry didn’t even have to nod. 

She must have been the corpse. 

Something very sad indeed set into Dumbledore’s eyes, and at last his gaze shifted. He didn’t look at Tom, instead he deflated slightly, sitting on the edge of the desk, his eyes falling to the floor, and his voice was like a breath of wind before the thunder,

“Such a shame…she was a lovely girl. It is, I think, the greatest tragedy when a young life is snuffed out.”

And now it seemed he was deliberately refusing to look at Tom. As if, if he did, all those waves would shatter out of their finely crafted cages, and send them both tumbling into an oblivion of cold despair. 

“Now how would an object of such nature come into Miss Weasley’s possession?”

“I—” Harry swallowed. “I don’t know how she got it—” The thought of speaking her name constricted his throat. “All I know is…She…She’s been writing in it, and he’s been…”—Harry looked down—“writing back.” He said the words like returning correspondences was an action reserved for the worst of villains.

“She was the one writing the messages on the walls?”

Harry gave a single, jerky nod. 

Before Harry could continue his explanation, Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him. “Harry, would you mind fetching Professor Snape? Explain to him what has happened—be as detailed as you can. Tell him to bring the strongest truth serum he has. As well as that bottle of mead, if he happens to still have it.”

Harry paused a moment, then his feet sounded against the floorboards, and the door shut with a creak and a bang.

Dumbledore sighed, his eyes grazing over the dismembered diary, before at last settling on Tom—

Was he still breathing? Tom wasn’t sure. He had to look away. 

_Pity._ That was it. That was what he hated most about the way this man looked at him. Harry’s hate was bearable. But this pity, this looking down on him was what he couldn’t take. 

Tom glanced at his wand, which had never once moved throughout this whole conversation. 

“Isn’t your arm getting tired?” He grunted.

“A little, yes.” Dumbledore answered, and didn’t move a millimeter. 

He was expecting Dumbledore to question him, or threaten him, to say something, anything at all, yet he just sat there, looking at him with that gaze like suffocation. 

Tom looked anywhere but him. At the bookcase, at the sword, the tattered fabric he now realized was a hat, the bird which landed on the desk next to Dumbledore, and back to the stick in his hand.

“That’s…” Tom paused, unsure he wanted to ask, for surely he’d sounds stupid, “a wand… isn’t it?” 

There was something lurking in his voice, a longing he didn’t realize was there until he said it aloud.

Dumbledore didn’t answer right away.

“Yes, it is.”

Something bubbled in Tom’s chest at these words, a dark sort of desire.

“So…So one of you put a spell on me to make me forget? Is that it?”

“Well, I do not have the full story, nor should I presume to know the answers, however…if I am correct in my understanding…this has the mark of your own handiwork.” 

Tom blinked up at him. “ _I_ did this to myself?”

“Not, intentionally, I am sure.”

“So… _I_ can do magic?” He looked at his hands as if hoping to see magic flowing through his veins.

Dumbledore didn’t respond.

“So where’s my wand?” he asked in an almost greedy way. 

“I’m afraid I cannot help you there, Tom. I’m not privy to where you keep your valuables.”

Tom’s temper finally got the better of him. 

“Would you care to explain to me what’s going on?!” he spat. 

“Not until we know what you know.” He said simply. His calm tone was aggravating. 

“You already do!” He stood. “I don’t know _anything_!” he blazed as if this situation was everyone else’s fault. What did these people not get? 

“I would prefer to confirm this fact before divulging any more information.”

Tom fell back into his seat, looking away bitterly and biting his lip

“…Who was that girl?” he grunted after a moment, “The one who died.” 

Dumbledore sighed, seemingly deciding this was a question he could safely answer. 

“Her name was Ginny Weasley. She was a few years younger than yourself. Kind, spirited…I like to think she would have grown up to be a fine woman some day… I am not looking forward to giving her family the news.”

“Yes but who _was_ she? Why was she killed? Was she important?”

“Important?” There was _fire_ trapped behind that ice; the most violet and vibrant he’d ever seen. The two elements were forever at odds, for if the fire melted the ice, the resulting water would extinguish it. “You ask this as if she was some tool to be used. She was a person, like you and me; _of course_ she was important.”

Ah. So he was one of those sentimental types. 

“Where are we?”

Another pause. “Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“That’s a funny name for a school.”

“Yes I suppose it is.”

“Don’t you think you can loosen up?” he barked. “I’m unarmed, I can’t exactly—”

“There are a number of things I could do, Tom,” said the fire, “be grateful I am choosing this.”

There was another pause.

“So you teach…magic.”

“Yes.”

“…Will you teach me?”

His eyes flickered, betraying something dark in him. “I already have, once.”

“And? That means you could to it again, yes? Will you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you will use it.”


	4. Tainted Verity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this was a really fun one to write XD
> 
> Thank you guys so _so_ much for your continued comments!!!! They really are incredibly encouraging, and really do help me keep writing this!!! <3 <3

Harry silently battled himself. Snape was not high on the list of people he wanted to talk to right now…The question, was, however, if the young Lord Voldemort was _lower_ on that list. As he stared into those dark eyes that he once saw stained red, staring from the back of someone else’s head, it didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that yes, he was. 

He turned on his heel and ventured into the hall, his footsteps rather loud as he marched, his head buzzing, a hive for fears, sorrows, and rage to nest. 

Last he’d checked Snape was in the teacher’s lounge, so he thought it best check to there first. He paused before the door, and could hear them chatting. 

As he heard the words _“…shut down the school…”_ Harry froze, his fingers lingering above the doorknob.

They had been talking about this before, but when he was down in the Chamber those thoughts hadn’t made their way through his brain. All he had been thinking about was rescuing Ginny, and now that he _hadn’t_ been able to rescue her…

They weren’t going to shut down Hogwarts, were they? 

He shook his head. No. He couldn’t think about that. He’d cross that bridge when they came to it. He had enough to deal with without worrying over that. Right now all that mattered was getting Snape to bring the truth serum. 

He knocked, and opened the door to see many of the teachers where he’d left them. Flitwick sitting on the couch looking solemn, Sprout twiddling her thumbs nervously at the table, and Snape standing at the window. 

“Professor Snape, sir.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to have a word.” 

Snape turned to him, those black eyes narrowing. “Excuse me.” He said to the teachers he’d been previously conversing with. “Apparently what Potter has to say is more important,”— a gust of wind from Snape’s cloak hit Harry—“as usual.” 

Snape shut the door behind him, stopping in the hall, folding his arms over his chest. 

“So, Potter, it appears you think yourself above the rules, even those designed to keep you safe. Weren’t all the students _explicitly_ told to return to their dormitories?”

Harry glared at him, wishing he could physically wound him with his eyes. 

Two words fell to the floor, and he swore he heard them thud there:

“Ginny’s dead.”

Snape froze, his eyes wide.

“She’s…what?” he breathed. 

Harry nodded, looking at the ground. 

“Slytherin’s monster?”

“No. Well that was there too but I took care of it. It was…” he hesitated. “It was… Voldemort.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “I have a hard time believing the Dark Lord could murder a young girl when he’s supposed to be in the forests of Albania…Not to mention why he’d have any reason to.”

“He…” Harry paused. How could he explain this? “It wasn’t….It wasn’t _that_ him—”

“Not everyone is inside your brain, Potter; speak plainly”

“May I explain on the way, Sir?”

“To where?”

“To your office, to get truth serum.”

“Oh so you decided to _ask_ this time instead of stealing from me?”

Harry froze, looking over at Snape, who’s mouth had quirked up slightly. 

“My apologies, but I’m going to have to decline. I don’t make it a habit to hand out valuable—not to mention, dangerous—potions to students. _Especially_ students who previously stole from me.”

“ _I_ don’t need it!” He resisted the urge to stamp his foot on the ground. “ _Dumbledore_ does! He asked me to come get you!”

Snape quieted at that, before abruptly turning and marching down the hallway. After a moment of walking in silence he asked,

“You still haven’t answered my question.” He said more placidly. “How could The Dark Lord murder a young girl when he is in the forests of Albania?”

“His diary. And he didn’t exactly _murder_ her…not in the traditional sense at least…”

He looked down his hooked nose at him. “I hardly think a diary is capable of murder.”

Harry glared at him. He was barely getting a word in edgewise. That’s not to say he really wanted to explain all of this to him, or even so much as _talk_ about it, but Dumbledore had told him to explain in as much detail as he could…so he probably should.

But, even if he were talking to someone he actually had interest in explaining this to, his thoughts were all jumbled up. He could barely string two words together. Dumbledore told him to tell him everything in detail…but he could barely remember anything in the right order himself.

“It was his—Voldemort’s—when he was sixteen. It was enchanted.”

“Enchanted for what purpose?” 

“To…” He swallowed, speaking the next words as quietly as he could; “bring him back…”

Snape stopped in his tracks, apparently having heard him even so. “Bring him back?” Then his eyes narrowed. “Potter, once again you prove yourself prone to wild fairy tales. A diary cannot commit murder in as much as it cannot resurrect the dead. …Unless—” he paused.

“Unless what, Professor?” 

Snape said nothing. 

“Why does the Headmaster need Veritaserum?”

“It’s for…him.” He said softly.

They arrived at his office. Snape silently got a step stool from the corner and put it on the floor in front of the shelf. He ascended it and began picking up the potions in turn, examining their labels. 

“Oh, and Dumbledore mentioned to bring that bottle of mead too, if you happen to still have it.” Harry interjected nervously, unsure what to make of Snape’s lack of a response, doing anything to avoid the topic at hand. 

“You didn’t exactly answer me.” He spoke as he picked up a green potion from the front, examining it, a disdainful look marking his face. Keeping in in his hand, he reached behind it, picking up a clear potion. “ _Who_ is this Veritaserum for?” He held up the clear potion to indicate it was what he was referring to. 

“I _did_ tell you. It’s for… _him_.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Potter.” He barked as he stepped down and set the clear potion on his desk. “By the way, if this is _your_ doing—” in lieu of a finished sentence he held up the green bottle to reveal there was a crack in it. 

“For _him_!” Harry ignored his unfinished threat. “ _Tom Riddle!_ ” The words rang through the air. 

But Snape didn’t react like Harry thought he would. There was no shock on his face. Instead he simply said, “Forgive me Potter but that’s not a name I’m familiar with.” 

Harry tried not to growl, his fingers curling into fists at his side.

“ _Tom Riddle_!” he shouted. “You know, _Voldemort_?! But when he was younger?!”

There was the sound of shattering glass. He looked up to see the green potion in Snape’s hand had shattered, the glass pieces tinkling along the floor. His expression was imperceptible as ever…it was like his body had betrayed him for just a moment. Blood began dripping from the hand previously holding it, but apparently he hadn’t noticed.

He took slow calculated steps towards Harry, his black eyes boring holes into him. His words were level but something behind his voice quivered,

“You mean to tell me that the _Dark Lord_ is…”

“ _Here_ , yes, Sir. But as Tom Riddle—a sixteen-year-old boy who doesn’t remember anything. Hence why we need _that_.” He pointed at the potion on his desk. “Dumbledore wants to make _sure_ he doesn’t remember anything before we proceed.”

“That’s not possible.” He murmured. Then, without warning, his eyes locked on Harry like tiny drills, and his voice boomed, “ _TELL THE TRUTH!_ ” 

Harry stared at him, eyes half lidded. He quirked an eyebrow, tilted his head to the side, and made a decision. A decision he knew he was liable to regret very soon…but the only one he could currently make with his tangled, disarranged thoughts. The only way he saw that he could adequately follow Dumbledore’s orders and tell Snape what happened, without this ending in an even worse shouting match, not to mention also making sure the details actually made their way out of his stammering mouth.

He reached forward, grabbed the Veritaserum, and drank it.

Well, not _all_ of it—he may be reckless, but he wasn’t that much of an idiot. Just a few drops. Just…enough. 

Snape stared at him for a few moments, blinked, then; 

“I knew you were daft, Potter, but I didn’t take you for a _complete and utter dimwit_!” He smacked him on the back of the head. “What else would you like to have for an afternoon drink?! My Polyjuice potion while you’re at it? How about a draught of living death? Or my last stores of—?!”

“I could have killed him.” The words were barely a breath. 

Both of their eyes widened at this. 

It wasn’t what Harry had planned to say. Not at all. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d tell anyone this fact. Maybe Ron and Hermione, maybe Dumbledore, but _never_ Snape. He’d only wanted to get the facts out straight…but apparently the truth in his veins had a mind of its own.

Yup, he was regretting it already.

The anger in Snape’s eyes gave way for a gentler kind of surprise. 

“I wanted to.” Harry said, a darkness behind the quiet words, his eyes glazed, staring somewhere far from here. “He was out cold…I had the sword in my hand…not to mention my wand… _and_ a Basilisk tooth…”—(Why couldn’t he _stop_?! Snape hadn’t even asked him a question!)—“I could have stabbed him, or poisoned him, or at least cursed him…”

Snape drew out his wand and ran it over the cuts in his hand, muttering an incantation like a song, healing them, before waving it again, cleaning up the broken bottle. Then he asked softly;

“Why didn’t you?”


	5. Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay!! This one was a bit harder than I thought it'd be XD I was really excited for it when I started writing this fic, but after the Snape chapter I was more in the mood for comedy than angst, so I had some trouble XD Might go back and edit it one of these days when I'm an angsty mood, haha!
> 
> Thank you again for all your lovely, encouraging comments!! <3 <3 As always, I'd appreciate if you could leave some more!! You guys are truly what's keeping this fic going!!

_“Get away, bird,” Riddle’s voice erupted. “Get away from him. I said, get_ away _!”_

_Harry raised his head to see Riddle pointing Harry’s wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun and Fawkes fell writhing to the chamber floor in a burst of gold and scarlet._

_“No…Fawkes…” Harry murmured._

_“Phoenix tears…” Riddle murmured, staring at Harry’s arm. “Of course…healing powers….I forgot…”_

_His dark gaze burrowed into Harry’s. “But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me. Harry Potter…you and me…”_

_He raised his wand._

_Then, without warning—or seemingly reason—Riddle paused, and began to cry out in pain._

_Harry blinked. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, just seeing things. Before his foggy eyes the specter of Tom Riddle began flickering in and out like a television in a lightning storm._

_He fell to his knees. “What is this?!” Riddle demanded of the empty air. “What is—ah!—What is happening to me?!”_

_Seeing he had a moment, Harry got up, going over to check on Fawkes. Relief washed him as he saw he was already beginning to get back up._

_He ran over to Ginny now, hoping to see signs of her waking as Riddle disappeared._

_Riddle tried to crawl towards him, pointing his wand at him, but his arm fell limp and he rested his elbows on the ground, he looked at him, his eyes alight with rage—Harry swore he saw a red glint there. “Did you do this to me?!” he hissed at Harry, like a snake rearing up._

_“I didn’t do anything!”_

_What_ was _happening to him? As far as Harry knew, he hadn’t done anything to him. Had he cursed him without knowing it? Was it something to do with the Basilisk?_

_Was he dying, or fading away? Harry hoped so, but he had no idea how. Whatever it was, he didn’t do it…and whatever it was, he wasn’t going to complain._

_Ginny was indeed twitching…yet the moment he arrived at her side he got a very bad feeling. She wasn’t twitching as if_ waking _from a bad dream, her eyelids fluttered, as if they were forced shut, as if she was trapped in a nightmare, unable to wake herself, or scream._

_Riddle rolled onto his back on the chamber floor, writhing in pain, crying louder than before. But to his horror, when Harry looked over at him he saw he wasn’t getting_ less _solid._

_All that hope was driven from his mind like there was a hole in the spaceship._

_“Ginny?!” He shook her. “Stay with me, Ginny! Stay with me!”_

_“You’ve lost her, Pott—AH!” Riddle’s body gave a powerful lurch._

_At the same time Ginny twitched more than ever, it seemed like she was trying to cry out, to make a sound, but couldn’t._

_“Ginny! GINNY!” Harry shook her even harder, as if he could wake her, and if he did this living nightmare would end. “You have to wake up Ginny!”_

_Something dropped in Harry’s lap and he turned to see Fawkes had found his wings._

_The diary, and the Basilisk fang._

_Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the Basilisk fang with his shaking hands, and plunged it straight into the heart of the book._

_Ink spurted from the wordless diary, a trail of black streaming over the leather, and his hands, and Riddle screamed, falling limp on the floor, Harry’s wand clattering out of his hand._

_Had he done it? He must have. He wouldn’t allow any other options to enter his brain._

_Harry let out a breath._

_He’d_ done _it. He was gone...Dead…_

_Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head was spinning as though he’d just travelled miles by Floo powder. Slowly, he dragged his feet along the chamber floor and gathered together his wand and the Sorting Hat. He limped over to the Basilisk, its gaping maw dripping puddles of blood on the floor, its unseeing eyes staring at him. He reached up and grabbed the hilt of the sword from the roof of its mouth, tugging with all his might. It glittered to into his hands, and he stumbled back with the weight of it._

_He trudged up to Ginny, breathing heavily. He wanted to say softly_ ‘It’s okay, he’s gone, you can wake up now.’ _But before the words could make it out of his lips, they were snuffed out by a horrible realization._

_She wasn’t breathing._

_Clattering metal and wood upon stone._

_“Ginny?! GINNY?!” He fell to his knees beside her, shaking her even harder than he had before. “Wake up Ginny!! WAKE UP!!” The words burned in his lungs._

_She didn’t obey._

_He continued to shake her… it was the only thing he knew to do._

_“What do I do?! What do I do?!” He pleaded to no one. “DO SOMETHING!” he yelled at Fawkes. “Can’t you heal her?!”_

_The Phoenix hung his head._

_His head creaked up, turning slowly to the boy laying some ways from them. The boy who would one day become the most powerful dark wizard of all time. The boy who would one day grow up to murder his parents._

_He stood up on shaking legs, making his way over to what he hoped was a lifeless shell._

_Horror clutched as his veins as he saw Riddle’s chest rising and falling; breathing the breath he stole from her lungs._

_Harry drew back, putting his hand over his mouth, the word “no” forming silently on his lips._

_All the while a horrible thought rang through him like the bell for his most dreaded class._

__It’s all my fault. __

_He knew it was. Riddle may have been the one to kill her, but in the end it was his fault._

_He wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t strong enough. Wasn’t brave enough. If he was any of those things he could have saved her._

_Without thinking he began crawling on trembling, burning hands and knees, and snatched up the Basilisk fang. He took a deep breath, and drove it again with all his might into the book._

_But no ink spurted from it this time, Riddle gave no jolt or scream._

_He opened the dairy, breath clawing at his lungs, and plunged it into the waters of the pages._

_Again, nothing._

_When he retracted the fang he saw the pages were ripped._

_Just that; pages. Nothing indicated they were tied to the life of the creature beside him._

_“No…_ NO _!”_

_This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t have happened. No, Ginny couldn’t be dead. Ron’s sister couldn’t be dead, just like that. Voldemort couldn’t be back, just like that. No, it was too fast, too quiet. He was the Boy Who Lived, he was supposed to_ save _her, to_ stop _Voldemort._

_In the end he was just a weak little boy, who grew up in a cupboard, who couldn’t do anything._

_He raised the fang stabbed it again into the book._

_…and again…_

_and again._

_He didn’t know how many times he’d pierced it before he threw the fang to the floor, seized the diary, and began ripping the pages with his own hands, screams grappling at his throat, wishing with every tear, with everything in him, the boy before him would fall to pieces with it. Until at last he fell limp, breath sitting heavy in his empty chest._

_There was a glint in the corner of his eye._

_Slowly he turned._

_The sword still on the floor with the Basilisk’s blood still on it._

_Would it bring her back? He stole her life…so if Riddle died… could Ginny be revived? Or was it too late?_

_Even if it couldn’t bring her back, this was_ Voldemort _. Sure he was young, not quite the same monster, but he was still the Dark Lord, and he had tried to kill him just a few moments earlier. Wouldn’t it be, really, self defense? A preemptive self defense for all the horrors he would soon commit?_

_He dragged himself over to the sword like an undead thing looking for life to steal, throwing his arm onto it, then pulled himself back, the metal dragging against the stone._

_He held the sword high, intending and expecting to bring it crashing down…but it was much heavier than it had a second ago._

_Why?_

_He could save countless lives if he just plunged that blade through this young boy’s chest. If he just picked up his wand and cast the curse he cast on countless others—_

_It would be so easy. So easy to cut off that breath._

__What are you waiting for? __

_He threw the sword to the ground with force, the metal ringing through the chamber, and plunged his hand in his pocket, pulling out his wand, almost fumbling with it, his hands sweating._

_Maybe he just didn’t want to feel the blade plunging into him. It would be too gross. If he used the wand it would be so much easier, he wouldn’t feel the breath leaving him, wouldn’t feel him dying._

_His hand shook as he pointed it at him…_

__”No! Not Harry! Don’t take Harry!”

“Step aside, girl!” __

_Screams, and the color green…_

__Just do it, you idiot. He’s evil. He killed your parents. He’ll kill you too, and countless others once he wakes up. __

_Why couldn’t he? It was so easy. It’s not like he didn’t know the words. He’d heard them in his dreams for a very long time, in_ this monster’s voice. This was the perfect chance for revenge. For justice. The only _chance, most likely._

_He collapsed to his knees beside him, sobs grappling at his chest._

_Why? Why couldn’t he do it?_

_He dragged himself over to Ginny, taking her hand in his…it was already so cold._

_“Ginny...Please, you have to wake up…” He began to cry into her fingers. “You have to wake up. I_ need _you to wake up.”_

_He pulled himself to his knees, and reached his arms around her, holding her in his arms, tight as he could, rocking back and forth, tears so warm against his cold cheeks._

_“Ginny…Your family needs you to be alive…_ I _need you to be alive…”_

_But her pale features didn’t change._

Harry wiped the tears from his eyes. He’d been trying his best to keep them back, but once he started talking about Ginny they wouldn’t stop. To his surprise, Snape didn’t tell him to keep it together, or scold him, he just kept listening…even handed him a tissue—(he scowled disapprovingly while doing so, though). 

As he finished Snape down the last few drops of mead in his glass—(he’d got the bottle out as while he was talking)—and vanished the glass.

Harry had told him everything that happened in that chamber, answering every question, without leaving out any detail, just as Dumbledore has said—(this included a rather large number of details he _didn’t_ care to share. With _anyone_. _Especially_ Snape.) It all just spilled out of him, like he was a leaky faucet that wouldn’t turn off. 

“Well,” Snape said when Harry’s truth-infected tongue finally fell limp, “it appears we have a Dark Lord to interrogate.” 

He began walking towards the door, and Harry was about to follow him, when a question he intended to be silent cut the air.

“What would you have done, Sir?” 

He wouldn’t usually ask that—screw that, he would never ask something so forward of Snape, for fear of, getting, you know know, _murdered_ —but the truth serum wouldn’t let him keep his thoughts to himself.

Snape froze, turning slowly, his eyes glittering.

That’s it, the end was nigh. He hoped they’d give him a nice funeral. 

But, when Snape spoke, it was the softness in his voice that sent chills down his spine; none of his insults ever sounded so dark…

“I wouldn’t have so much as hesitated.” 

His tongue rose again: “Do…Do you think we’ll have to kill him now?”

“That’s up to the Headmaster.”

Before either of them could move Snape flicked his wand, and Harry tried to speak but no sound came out.

“We can’t have you blabbing all our secrets to the young Dark Lord, now can we?” Snape smirked, and Harry glared at him as they exited the room.


	6. The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay!! I was working super hard on a couple projects with deadlines, and I didn't really have the chance for a break. I tried to get back to it as fast as I could once those projects were done!! I hope you're still interested in reading, even so <3
> 
> In addition to other things occupying my time, this chapter itself wasn't easy; for some reason, for a good while I had no clue what I'd do for the interrogation scene, add to that to the fact that I picked a very difficult perspective to write for here and it wasn't the easiest XD I hope I ultimately did a good job, and that you guys enjoy it!!
> 
> Comments are always _extremely_ appreciated!!

Snape didn’t think his day would go like this. 

One must keep a sense of preparedness about them, still, he didn’t think it remiss for not expecting a day that started with Neville handing him a bottle of goop that would be poison in a better context, would middle with the message that the Chamber of Secrets had opened and a student would be killed, and end with Potter standing in his office with Veritaserum conducting his tongue, telling him said student _was_ dead, and the Dark Lord was back, but without memory, and in the body of his sixteen-year-old self.

And said day wasn’t even over yet. 

They still had an interrogation to enact—(which would be a lot harder with the aformentioned truth-serumed Potter…and a lot easier with a mute Potter)—to make sure the missing-memory-claim was unequivocal fact. 

He was about to walk into McGonagall’s office to see a sixteen-year-old Dark Lord. And he was expected and required to act like the boy was an ordinary student—(though the boy himself probably already knew he wasn’t).

The person most feared in the wizarding world, who’d killed so many he lost count.

Not the least of which was— 

It wouldn’t be a problem. 

There was a spiteful look in Potter’s green eyes as they ventured through the halls. 

The silencing charm was proving enjoyable in addition to practical...But the small pleasure he gained from Potter’s plight had a fly’s life span. 

As they approached the door to the office, his grip tightened around the truth serum in his hand. From a glance out of the corner of his eye he saw Potter had a similar tenseness about him. 

He hated this boy, no question…but he’d be a monster if that story didn’t incite some form of empathy in him. 

—(In another time there was another redhead lying dead on the floor Halloween, killed by the same person. Empathy wasn’t a choice.)—

They opened the door, and the sound was like a conversation being snapped in half. 

“We’re not interrupting, I presume?” Snape’s voice carried across the room—(sure they very much _were_ )—calm as if Dumbledore really was speaking to an ordinary student. 

He let his eyes flick from Dumbledore to the boy in the chair in front of him, who had turned to them. 

Annoyance may have flared in Potter’s eyes, but this boy bought his annoyance from an entirely different factory, one where they manufactured all sorts of other, far more gruesome emotions.

The eyes were brown, and human, but they were an echo—(What’s an echo before the real thing sings off the cliff edge?)—of the red ones he’d later possess. Red sitting behind the brown, like adult teeth in the skull behind the baby’s, ready to force the childhood out bloody, for something worthless as a couple coins.

“Thank you for coming, Severus.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he sneered as he stepped to Dumbledore’s side to face the boy once more. 

He knew he’d be young, but a hex wasn’t entirely out of the question. Seeing this, this _thing_ that once murdered thousands without blinking, this thing that shrieked the words of death with a high, cold voice over countless muggles and muggle sympathizers, and whose eyes held no form of remorse, or sympathy …sitting before him, young and handsome and perhaps even human—

His left arm itched.

“Well, unless anyone can offer a viable reason to continue dilly dallying, I suggest we begin.” Dumbledore spoke pleasantly. 

Snape glided over to the boy—whose voice was level as he asked;

“What are you doing?” 

Snape held up the truth serum. 

“Do you have any idea what this is?”

The boy’s eyes flicked from the bottle to Snape wordlessly. Odds are it physically pained him to admit he didn’t know something. 

A smirk tugged at Snape’s lip.

“Wonderful.

“And I don’t suppose you’ll drink it willingly, if we were to ask you to?”

The boy’s eyes lidded. "You must be joking." 

“Even better.” 

He flicked his wand and ropes bound the boy to the chair.

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

“Well if you won’t drink it willingly, then we’ll just have to make sure you do so _unwillingly_. ...Open wide.” A said like a dentist, that smirk marking his features as he grabbed his chin and forced his mouth open, like offering King Claudius the poison.

"Severus—!" Dumbledore held out a hand, and began to protest—as did Tom himself—but the sounds were drowned out by the potion pouring into his mouth—which Snape quickly cast a spell to keep him from spitting it out. 

When he swallowed Snape cast the counters to each of the curses binding him and glided back around the desk.

The boy wiped his mouth, eyes throwing daggers at him. “Is this how you treat all your guests?” 

“Only our favorites.” 

“My sincerest apologies, Tom." Dumbledore spoke. "This is _not_ , in fact, how I intended for you to be treated. I'll endeavor to be more careful with my instructions next time."—He shot a reproachful glance at Snape—"But, I would like to know...what happened in the Chamber of Secrets?” Dumbledore asked, his voice commanding, but never losing its calm.

“What happened in the where?” Tom demanded, not altogether politely.

“The Chamber that you woke up in earlier.” Dumbledore continued, still pleasant. “Would you mind filling us in the details of what happened there?”

“I don’t have to—” He was probably about to say _‘tell you anything’_ but quickly found himself rather inexplicably compelled to do just that. 

He detailed his waking up in the Chamber without memory to see Potter crying over the dead Ginny, about how they exchanged words, how they got out…nothing that would betray the idea that he had lost his memory. 

“Thank you for telling us that.” Dumbledore replied simply—though something flickered behind his eyes when he spoke of the girl. "I'm certain it wasn't easy." Potter fidgeted in the back of the room, and likely would have asked why he had to stay if he could. Tom was about to speak up, likely to refute Dumbledore's comment, but Dumbledore asked before he could: “Are you certain you remember nothing prior to that?”

“I told you I don’t remember anything! _What did you do to me?!_ ” 

“You mean you don’t usually feel overly compelled to tell the truth?” Snape examined his nails.

“No.” His eyes were lidded. 

“Oh? If you don’t remember who you are, how would you know?”

"Does _anyone_ feel overly compelled to tell the truth?" His eyes lidded. "Seriously, who are you people?!”

“We already told you,” Dumbledore intonated. “I am the headmaster of this school, a school for witchcraft and wizardry. The oddly silent Harry,”—He gestured to the boy standing mutely at the back of the room—“is a student at this school, and Severus Snape here is a professor.”

“I have a hard time believing _teachers_ would strap a _student_ to a chair and force a truth potion down their throat!”

“I believe I mentioned that is not how I intended you to be treated, nor is it how most of my teachers would treat you. As far as the truth serum goes, however, we are still _wizard_ teachers. That means, at times, our methods can be a little…unorthodox. Tom”—The name made him flinch—“we merely want to discern if you truly are without memory. You may remember more than even you yourself are aware of—and more than simple questioning would illuminate. There are few other ways to discern this efficiently. Personally I would have attempted a bit more explanation and persuasion before resorting to tying you down.”—He shot a glance at Snape—“But…though it may not seem that way, we are trying to _help_ you.”

“I don’t think _Severus_ ”—Snape flinched at his name even more visibly than Tom had—“is particularly inclined to help me.”

Snape was seconds from doing something either very stupid, or very smart, but Dumbledore stood, his voice with a bite to it.

“ _Professor Snape_ is not particularly fond of you, that’s true.”

"Oh yeah?” He raised an eyebrow at Snape.

"I would like to phrase this delicately…” Dumbledore continued. “In your time here, you could be a bit of a…a bully. This is of course why Harry here isn’t particularly fond of you either. He has been subject to your bullying on more occasions than one. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Potter froze, as if surprised they asked him a question, then nodded. 

“So what you really mean is that _you_ are trying to help me, and these two are here to watch me suffer your ‘help’?”

“I did not intend my ‘help’ to cause you suffering. I apologize that it has. And just because you were not a particularly kind individual in the past doesn’t mean others are unwilling or undesirous to help you. That is what it _means_ to be kind.”

Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and he was particularly glad the boy’s overly truthful lips were sealed shut at that moment. 

“Let’s get back to the questions shall we? Do you have any memory at all attached to your own name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your name. Names are very powerful. You mentioned you did not know it until Harry mentioned it to you. Does hearing it arouse any particular memories or feelings in you?”

“Memories, no. Feelings…”

“Yes?”

“Hatred.” Tom froze, eyes wide, and his hand flew to his mouth—the first real reaction they’d seen from him. 

Despite his particular distaste for divulging the truth, he hadn’t said anything too incriminating yet. This was clearly one of those things he thought would grant him power if it stayed inside. 

“You feel hatred at the sound of your name? I see. Do you feel this hatred hearing anyone else’s names?”

“Yours.” He said into his hand. “His.” He threw his other thumb over his shoulder, while gripping his mouth. 

“Wonderful.”

His hand dropped into his lap. “ _Wonderful?_ ” 

“Well, not wonderful that you hate the sound of all our names, I don’t imagine that’s very pleasant. But this is helpful information. And this hatred does not come with any concrete memories?”

“No. Why do I hate—?”

“I imagine it’s because you were not overly fond of us either.”

“Why didn’t I like you?”

“Because we were two rather large roadblocks in your path of bullying.”

He paused. “…Why did I bully you?”

“Troubled home life, perhaps? You may find it difficult to believe, but you did not divulge the contents of your personal life to us. But I imagine you were dealing with quite a bit of internal strife to take it out on your fellow students. I do hope you will choose a different path in this new life you have been given, so to speak.”

The boy tapped his fingers on the armrest. “…What are you going to tell my family?”

“Your family?” His eyebrows raised. “About what?”

“About the fact that I don’t remember them.” He said like Dumbledore was stupid for not knowing.

“Oh, well, in that sense you are both particularly lucky, and particularly unlucky, in that your family is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

The boy paused, his gaze falling to the ground as he thought. “So where _is_ my home?"

"Of that I am not aware. I think, perhaps, Hogwarts was more home to you than anywhere else."

"...Where will I go, then?” 

“Go?”

“When I’m not at this school. You yourself said you might not let me back. Where else can I go?”

“That’s what we will have to discuss over the next few days.”

A look of surprise crossed Potter’s face, as if he hadn’t realized the sixteen-year-old dark lord would be any sort of permanent fixture. 

To tell the truth the thought _was_ rather jarring, but Snape hadn’t ruled out disposing of him just yet.

"What about my friends?" the boy asked.

There was a small indication of surprise in Dumbledore's eyes at the question, but it faded quickly as he answered. "It pains me to inform you that—to my knowledge at least—you did not have any."

His eyebrow raised. "None?"

"None of whom I'm aware." 

The boy looked down at his hands in his lap, as if pondering. 

"Does that sadden you?" Dumbledore asked softly. 

"No." The answer was cold and immediate...but apparently not truthful, as a moment later he barked the word "Yes," followed by an annoyed groan. Another pause. "...I don't know that 'sad' is the right word."

Dumbledore nodded. "Such a potion cannot always help discern the truth of one's emotions. That is, if they do not know them themselves.

After a pause, Dumbledore's gaze flicked to Snape. "Severus, do you have any more questions?” There was a meaningful glint in his eyes as he asked this. Snape gave a small nod in return. 

“You are _completely_ certain you don’t remember anything prior to a few hours ago?”

Imperceptibly, Snape flicked his wand at his side. 

“Why do I keep having to repeating myself?! I—”

Scenes flashed before Snape’s eyes. A darkened chamber, a tattered diary, a sword, a phoenix, a boy crying, a dead girl, red hair like flames on the stones—

“ _What the hell was that?!_ ” Tom demanded immediately, shooting up. “What did you do to me?!”

“To what are you referring?” Dumbledore asked. 

“That—That—Those visions! What was that?!” His eyes darted venomously between Dumbledore and Snape. “You’re looking through my memories, aren’t you?!”

“Merely a side effect of the potion.” Dumbledore answered as if they were having a conversation over afternoon tea. “Nothing to worry about. Please, proceed.” 

“I said I _don’t remember anything!_ ” He spat. 

Snape tried again, and more of the same scenes that they had already described flashed by. 

After exiting the memory, the boy’s eyes were wild and fiery, continually darting between the two of them, and Snape swore he saw something red there. 

“Is that all the information you need?! Can I go now?!” He spun to storm out of the room before they gave an answer.

Another flick of Snape’s wrist, and the boy was lifted into the air by his ankle. 

“Class has not been dismissed, _Tom._ ” 

Emotion rushed across the boy’s face; horror, rage, humiliation, and Snape reveled in it.

“You said yourself;” Snape stepped closer, and his voice softened into a taunting whisper, “where would you go? Would you wander the halls like a lost, little boy without his mommy?” 

Tom’s eyes flashed once more, and he squirmed against the spell, and it almost seemed, for a second, like he’d hit Snape.

Another flick, behind his back this time, and this time he concentrated very hard at breaking past the scene only an hour earlier. 

It was as if he hit a wall in the boy’s mind. Snape never thought of people’s minds as books to be perused by any passerby, but the harder he tried to break through, the more the boy’s mind looked like the ripped pages of a book too old to hold itself together. Like walking into a dream where the dreamer stopped imagining the world, so reality just…tapered off. The world in his mind, ripped, hazy, rotted and congealed.

“Would you _stop_ that?!”

But Snape wouldn't, not yet. He tried once more, attempting very hard to break past the shards of his memories. It appeared like nothing more than yellowing pages—

Then he saw something.

Wall was the more apt descriptor after all. More than that, it was like a thick pane of ice through which all the fossils behind it could only be seen blurry and discolored. Reality may not taper off into a void, perhaps it only seemed that way from afar.

There was something trapped in that ice indeed. He could see something small. The red—or was it orange?—blotch on it was the most noticeable, but there were other blocks of color there too, both dark and light. He tried to get closer, as if to put his hand to that ice, or else try to crack it. He swore he saw the thing make a small motion towards him too—

When he came back to reality, though he wanted to keep trying until he discerned what that thing was, he knew from the look in the boy's eyes that another attempt would lead to more than just complaints, or fruitless threats. He had pushed his luck, and the boys limits, enough.

“That concludes my questions.” Snape pocketed his wand and turned to Dumbledore.

“What about you, Harry?” Dumbledore asked gently. “Anything to ask?”

Potter glanced between the two of them, surprised his opinion was of any worth in this situation—(and, if he was frank, Snape wasn’t altogether sure it was). 

“I think you’ll find Potter is disinclined to speak for the next few moments.” He tried not to smirk.

Dumbledore looked over his half-moon spectacles at him. 

“Will you _Let. Me. Down?!_ " The boy growled.

Another flick, and the boy fell to the ground in a mess of limbs.

“You could’ve been gentler!” He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. 

_So could you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, Snape is a rather difficult perspective to write for, and I’m still not entirely sure I did a great job with him... I would have used Tom’s perspective and reveled in his horror, but I felt I should probably use Snape because of the legilimacy thing. I wanted you guys to know what he saw there.  
> It's possible I might try rewriting this chapter from Tom's perspective to check if I missed any reactions or questions he would have/ask too, or even if it's overall better from his perspective...so keep in mind stuff might get edited in the future!! And do let me know if you liked in in Snape's perspective!!
> 
> FYI, these should be the three perspectives I use/alternate between (Tom, Harry, Snape). At the moment I don’t intend to add more. Maybe if I really need to for an off chapter down the road I will, but I can't imagine what that would be at the moment.


	7. Unmute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that the fastest I've posted a next chapter, without having it written ahead of time? I think it might be!!  
> It definitely helped that two scenes were directly from the book XD But still, I was shocked by how fast this got done!  
> (Please note, I'm not intending to take credit for writing those scenes which were from the book!! I simply needed them to be there for the flow of things. They're definitely things that relate to the other HP books that shouldn't just be skipped!). 
> 
> By the way, I realized there was something important I should probably have occur in the previous chapter, that I didn't include, so please note something will be added in at some point! I finished this chapter before I edited the last one so it's not there yet XD I'll let you know at the start of the next chapter if I edited it in. 
> 
> I also realized I did not mention Fawkes hanging out in the office in other chapters XD, so I'll probably have to edit that back in too, haha!
> 
> As always, thank you for your comments, I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to hear what you thought!!

There was the sound of Dumbledore’s chair scraping against the floor as he stood abruptly.

“Now _I_ must apologize.” Though still solid, his voice had lost its pleasantness, now it had an edge. “ _Severus_.” The word was sharp, “I cannot allow you to treat a student this way.”

The two stared at each other, and it was as if they were having a conversation in simple glances. Snape seemed to lose the silent argument, because he sighed and said in a clipped way, not looking at Tom. 

“My apologies. I lost my composure.”

When Harry looked at Tom he saw that, behind the adult’s backs, his lips were curving into a smirk. 

He wasn’t even really upset, was he? He’d have every right to be upset by a scene such as this, but in the end…he was just happy to see Snape get in trouble. 

Harry and Snape had rarely, if ever, been on the same side, and the muting spell, while he admitted was necessary—(number of things flared to his tongue that he was glad he wasn’t capable of saying)—didn’t give him any fondness for him…yet it seemed for a brief moment, they were united. But he wouldn’t say he was the least bit opposed to Snape’s treatment of Riddle.

He had expected Snape to be his usual collected self, even favor Riddle the way he did Malfoy—they’d suspected on more than one occasion he was in league with Voldemort. Seeing the hatred in his eyes for Riddle made Harry take a step back, both physically and mentally. 

“Thank you.” Dumbledore sat back down. 

Tom said nothing, his eyes fixed on Snape, intent set in them. “You must really hate me.” He said the words like he relished the idea. “What did I do?” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve killed a girl, so there must not be much I can’t do.”

The teachers’ eyes widened, and they looked at each other. 

“You didn’t kill her.” Dumbledore cleared his throat. 

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I thought Harry here made that rather clear.”

“Harry _thought_ you did. But this is magic of course. I am able to deduce from the information you have given me; it was in fact another force working through you through that diary. Destroying the diary severed your ties with that force, but also cost you your memories.”

Harry wondered what Dumbledore’s aim was. He _had_ killed Ginny, they both confirmed it. 

“How would you know this from just a bit of information?” Tom scoffed.

“Because I’ve dealt with such forces on more than one occasion—even this specific one before. This one is a particular nuisance.” 

After a moment of silence Dumbledore spoke:

“Professor Snape. Will you _kindly_ take Mr. Riddle to Madam Pomfrey?”

“Sir?”

“Well, the boy has suffered a loss of memory, he ought to stay in the hospital wing until we get all this sorted. There should be a few empty beds now that the petrified students have been cured. “Also…” he interrupted them as they turned to leave, and something sad indeed entering his gaze. “Send the Weasleys to me, will you?”

Harry’s stomach gave a painful jolt at the name. 

As the two left—(rather stiffly)—Dumbledore flicked his wand, lifting the muting curse Snape had placed on Harry. 

Harry drew in a great gasping breath.

“Thank you, Professor.” He heaved. 

“Don’t mention it, Harry. I don’t imagine that was very pleasant.”

“No.” Harry replied, making faces, just glad to have use of his lips again. 

“Did Professor Snape force you to drink the truth serum, Harry?”

“Actually…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I drank it myself.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I must say, that was not an answer I was expecting. May I ask if you had a reason?”

“You told me to tell Snape every detail of what happened, but I…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I _couldn’t_. Every time I tried to say something he’d interrupt, or I couldn’t get it out…it was the only way.”

“I’m sorry you had to resort to such measures, Harry. I only meant that he ought know a good portion of what happened, not every detail. I think, in fact, knowing every detail resurrected old grudges for Severus.” He looked towards the door.

“It’s alright. I won’t say it wasn’t fun to watch." A pause. "…I’ve never seen Snape like that…"

On more than one occasion, he, Ron, and Hermoine had thought Snape was on Voldemort's side. Even if he wasn't directly on his side, he always seemed to favor the bullies in the class, and never seemed quite like he was on the 'good' side. It was odd to see his own bullying directed at someone who actually deserved it.

"Why does Snape have a grudge against Voldemort?”

“It is not not my place to tell you.”

“Like _he_ ’d ever tell me.” Harry scoffed, then froze, eyes wide, worried he was about to get in trouble.

Dumbledore gave a small smile, “I can see why precautions were necessary.” 

Harry smiled sheepishly.

“But, no,” Dumbledore replied. “I don’t imagine he will.

“I apologize if that was rather difficult to watch. I wanted you to be here. I thought you deserved to hear our conversation.”

“Thanks.”

“Sit down, Harry.” He gestured to the chair in front of him.

He was about to sit down, but paused. He knew it was silly, but he didn’t like the idea of sitting in the chair the young Voldemort had just sat in. 

Dumbledore smiled a little. “Sit.” 

Slowly he lowered himself into the chair, sitting on as little of it as possible.

“First of all, Harry, I want to thank you.” He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down onto his knee. “You must have shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing but that could have called Fawkes to you.”

“…Fat lot of good it did me.” He didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“Oh, I think it did a great deal of good. Who knows how things would have gone without that. One thing I know would have gone differently is you likely would have had great deal of trouble getting out of the chamber. Fawkes is the one who flew you out, is he not?”

There was a long moment where they sat in silence, before Harry spoke:

“I couldn’t save her.”

Dumbledore looked up.

“I couldn’t save her.” He continued. “She was lying on the floor, helpless, and he was taking her life force. Next thing I knew she was dying, and _he_ was coming back…” his voice became a pained whisper.

“It’s not your fault, Harry.” Dumbledore said earnestly. “More practiced wizards than yourself have been unable to save their friends and family from Voldemort. Her death is not on your hands.”

Harry paused, fidgeting with those hands, looking away.

“I could have killed him. When he came back he was lying on the floor unconscious…I could have…I bet most people would have. But I didn’t…I _couldn’t_ …” he stammered, then looked up. “Why couldn’t I?!”

Dumbledore stood, walking around to sit on the desk in front of Harry. “Something people often don’t tell children—or anyone really—is sometimes it takes just as much courage to spare a life than to take it. Often more, in fact. It may be strange to hear, but, I think it may be a very good thing that you didn’t.”

“How?”

“Let me ask you something…do you think Lord Voldemort deserves a second chance?”

Harry thought a moment; he thought of the of the man who killed his parents. Then the boy that had been before him, the one who had told him he was Voldemort, set the snake loose, and nearly killed him, and _did_ kill—

“Honestly, professor? No, I don’t think so.”

Dumbledore nodded. “That’s very understandable. Then let me ask you something else…Do you think Tom Riddle deserves a second chance?”

Harry cocked his head to the side. “Sir?”

“Tom Riddle. Or, maybe not even Tom Riddle. I am referring to the boy who was sitting here moments ago. Not the man who killed countless. The boy who currently is nothing more than that.”

He thought harder. The boy sitting there wasn’t the same, not quite, but he still wasn’t exactly kind…. Harry himself had though Tom Riddle an ally in the diary…

“He killed Ginny.”

“Lord Voldemort killed Ginny. The boy sitting before us moments ago did not.”

“I…I don’t know.” Harry wasn’t sure why he was asking him this. “What do you think?”

“I knew Tom Riddle when he was at school. I knew him to be—while charming on the outside—clever, cunning, and manipulative. Many times I have regretted not seeing what was coming, and taking precautions, sooner. If I had seen him here today I might be inclined to say ‘no’ myself. However…the boy who stood before today may not be the same as the one I knew.”

“What do you mean? Because he lost his memory?”

“Perhaps. However…I think coming back using the diary specifically, as well as Ginny’s life force, as opposed to other means, may have had consequences he couldn’t have foreseen.”

“What do you mean sir?”

“We’ll learn in due time. Currently it is nothing more than an untested hypothesis of mine, and I don’t make it a habit of divulging those as fact.”

“So," Dumbledore changed the subject, "you met Tom Riddle—before he lost his memory, I mean.” Dumbledore altered the subject. “I imagine he was _most_ interested in you.”

Harry’s thoughts were jumbled, but something had been nagging at him before this all started, and it presently came tumbling out of his mouth.

“Professor Dumbledore, Riddle said that I…I’m like him. Strange likenesses he said…”

“ _Did_ he now?” Said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully under his thick silver eyebrows at Harry. “And what do you think Harry?”

“I don’t think I’m like him!” Harry said more loudly than he intended. “I mean, I’m—I’m a _Gryffindor,_ I’m…” 

But he fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in his mind. 

“Professor,” he started again after a moment, “the Sorting Hat told me I’d—I’d have done well in Slytherin. Everyone thought I was Slytherin’s heir for a while…because I can speak Parseltongue…”

“You can speak Parseltongue, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly, “Because Lord Voldemort—who is the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin—can speak Parseltongue. Unless I’m much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I’m sure…”

“Voldemort put a bit of himself in _me_?” Harry said, thunderstruck.

“It certainly seems so.”

“So I _should_ be in Slytherin.” Harry looked desperately into Dumbledore’s face. “The Sorting Hat could see Slytherins power in me, and it—”

“Put you in Gryffindor.” Said Dumbledore calmly. “Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked students; his own very rare gift, Parseltongue, resourcefulness, determination…a certain disregard for the rules,” he added, his mustache quivering again. “Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think.”

“It only put me in Gryffindor,” said Harry in a defeated voice, “Because I asked not to go in Slytherin…”

“ _Exactly_.” Said Dumbledore, beaming once more. “Which makes you very _different_ from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. Did you not prove that once again today when you chose not to kill him? That took incredible bravery.” Harry sat motionless in his chair, stunned. “If you want proof, Harry, that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely at _this_.”

Dumbledore reached across Professor McGonagall’s desk, picked up the blood-stained silver sword and handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry turned it over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the name engraved just below the hilt. 

_Godric Gryffindor_

“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the Hat, Harry.” Said Dumbledore simply. 

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Harry, while certainly comforted, wondered if Godric Gryffindor would have been proud or ashamed if he'd used his sword to kill the young Voldemort that day.

“Sir?”

“Mm?”

“May I…May I tell Ron and Hermione about all of this? About the Chamber, about Riddle, about…?” he trailed off.

Dumbledore took off his glasses and cleaned them. “Under most circumstances I would say yes, especially considering Ron’s position, but this one is…rather special. I’m currently of the mind that the less people know Lord Voldemort is back—in _any_ form—the better. 

“This situation is both particularly strange, and particularly delicate. You may tell them that Lord Voldemort was working through a diary to control Ginny, and that this lead to her death—that is what I will be telling the Weasleys…But I believe it is safer for everyone if they do not know he successfully managed to return to the land of the living.”

Harry looked at the ground. The thought of keeping all this to himself was almost more daunting than the fact that it had happened in the first place.

“Harry, where _is_ Ron?”

Harry’s eyes widened, horror and shame gripping him. “I…left him down in the chamber…I…." He bit his lip. "I don’t think he would have left if I told him he had to," he attempted to defend himself.

Dumbledore’s eyes mirrored his. “Oh dear. Well we’ll certainly have to sort that out won’t we?”

“What should I do, sir?”

Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in Professor McGonnagall’s desk, and took out a quill and a bottle of ink. “What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I suggest you go back to Gryffindor tower, while I write to Azkaban—we need our game-keeper back. And I must draft an advertisement for the _Daily Prophet_ , too,” he added thoughtfully. “We’ll be needing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher… Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don’t we?” 

“So…” Harry spoke, his gut twisting, unsure if this was the truth serum speaking, or if pained curiosity was guiding his tongue now, “Hogwarts won’t shut down?”

Dumbledore paused, blue eyes flicking up to him. “I imagine I’ll have to suffer through several unpleasant meetings...but I don’t think they’ll succeed at closing Hogwarts. We've discovered the source of the petrifications. The threat is gone, isn’t it?”

“ _Is_ it?” Harry’s voice was small. “Sure I killed the Basilisk, but...Tom Riddle’s still around. I mean, won’t his memory come back eventually? Don’t you think he’ll be the same person when he gets his memory back?”

“You’re not saying you’d _like_ Hogwarts to close, are you?”

“ _No!_ ” Harry stood. “Of course not! I just…I…If we’re not _safe_ …maybe it’s better if…”

A lump rose in his throat. The thought of not coming back to Hogwarts, staying with the Dursley’s for the indeterminate future, with the knowledge that Voldemort was walking around as his sixteen your old self…

“The fact that Voldemort is back in this way makes the situation rather unorthodox, but there’s no place safer than Hogwarts." Dumbledore explained. "Firstly, if the school closes, I fear that would make things _more_ dangerous in the end, and on his end, rather than less. There’s no telling what he could do, released out to the world.”

“But he wouldn’t know how to do magic! Wouldn’t that—?”

“He knows magic exists, now. Knowing him, he’d do anything in his power to learn how to master it, and that could make him far more dangerous than simply teaching him. Hogwarts, while a place that will indeed teach him magic, is a place where we can be more discerning about the magic he learns, as well as more easily keep an eye on him. I myself will sleep more soundly knowing I'll be among the first to know if he is acting at all strangely. Not to mention the fact that Hogwarts, is, I believe, the one place Tom Riddle felt at home in the world. I think being in one of the few environments he truly felt comfortable in, will help nudge him in the right direction, don’t you?”

Harry pondered the words a moment. As always, Dumbledore was hard to argue with. Still—

“The right direction? You really _do_ think he can be reformed.”

“I am not certain. I still need to do the kind of heavy thinking one does when pouring over an unfamiliar restaurant menu in attempts to decide what to order. …But I think trying wouldn’t be remiss to try.”

Harry said nothing, questions, demands, insults, bobbing to the surface of his brain. 

“We can and will certainly discuss this more thoroughly after I we've all had a good night's sleep.” He said earnestly. “But at this particular moment, I don’t think it beneficial for you to continue troubling yourself. Food and sleep, Harry, I think will do you a world of good.”

Harry stayed a moment, sitting in the chair, trying to think of anything else he could ask, but he was tired of even simply thinking at this point.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighed softly, before getting up and crossing to the door. 

He had just reached for the handle, however, when the door burst open so violently that it bounced back off the wall. 

Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face. And cowering behind his legs, heavily wrapped in bandages, was _Dobby._

“Good evening, Lucius,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. 

Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept into the room. Dobby went scurrying in after him, crouching at the hem of his cloak, a look of abject terror on his face. 

The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was attempting to finish cleaning Mr. Malfoy’s shoes. Apparently Mr. Malfoy had set out in a great hurry, for not only were his shoes half-polished, but his usually sleek hair was disheveled. Ignoring the elf bobbing apologetically around his ankles, he fixed his cold eyes upon Dumbledore. 

“So!” he said “You’ve come back. The governors suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to Hogwarts.” 

“Well, you see, Lucius,” said Dumbledore, smiling serenely, “the other eleven governors contacted me today. It was something like being caught in a hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They’d heard that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed and wanted me back here at once. They seemed to think I was the best man for the job after all. Very strange tales they told me, too…Several of them seemed to think that you had threatened to curse their families if they didn’t agree to suspend me in the first place.” 

Mr. Malfoy went even paler than usual, but his eyes were still slits of fury. 

“So—have you stopped the attacks yet?” he sneered. “Have you caught the culprit?” 

“We have,” said Dumbledore, with a smile.

“ _Well?_ ” said Mr. Malfoy sharply. “Who is it?”

“The same person as last time, Lucius,” said Dumbledore. “But this time, Lord Voldemort was acting through somebody else. By means of this diary.” 

He held up the mangled book, watching Mr. Malfoy closely. Harry, however, was watching Dobby. 

The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes fixed meaningfully on Harry, he kept pointing at the diary, then at Mr. Malfoy, and then hitting himself hard on the head with his fist. 

“I see…” said Mr. Malfoy slowly to Dumbledore. 

“A clever plan,” said Dumbledore in a level voice, still staring Mr. Malfoy straight in the eye. “Because if Harry here” —Mr. Malfoy shot Harry a swift, sharp look— “and his friend Ron hadn’t discovered this book, why—Ginny Weasley might have taken all the blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she hadn’t acted of her own free will…” 

Mr. Malfoy said nothing. His face was suddenly masklike. 

“And imagine,” Dumbledore went on, “what might have happened then. The Weasleys are one of our most prominent pure-blood families. Imagine the effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle Protection Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and killing Muggle-borns…Very fortunate the diary was discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who knows what the consequences might have been otherwise.” 

Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak.

“Very fortunate,” he said stiffly.

And still, behind his back, Dobby was pointing, first to the diary, then to Lucius Malfoy, then punching himself in the head. And Harry suddenly understood. He nodded at Dobby, and Dobby backed into a corner, now twisting his ears in punishment. 

“Don’t you want to know how Ginny got hold of that diary, Mr. Malfoy?” said Harry.

Lucius Malfoy rounded on him.

“How should I know how the stupid little girl got hold of it?” he said.

Anger rose in harry at the insult

“Because you gave it to her,” his voice was tempered, “in Flourish and Blotts.

“You picked up her old Transfiguration book and slipped the diary inside it, didn’t you?” 

He saw Mr. Malfoy’s white hands clench and unclench.

“Prove it,” he hissed.

“Oh, no one will be able to do that,” said Dumbledore, smiling at Harry. “Not now that Riddle has vanished from the book. On the other hand, I would advise you, Lucius, not to go giving out any more of Lord Voldemort’s old school things. If any more of them find their way into innocent hands, I think Arthur Weasley, for one, will make sure they are traced back to you…” 

Lucius Malfoy stood for a moment, and Harry distinctly saw his right hand twitch as though he was longing to reach for his wand. Instead, he turned to his house-elf. 

“We’re going, Dobby!” 

He wrenched open the door and as the elf came hurrying up to him, he kicked him right through it. They could hear Dobby squealing with pain all the way along the corridor. Harry stood for a moment, thinking hard. Then it came to him— 

“Professor Dumbledore,” he said hurriedly. “Can I give that diary _back_ to Mr. Malfoy, please?” 

“Certainly, Harry.”

Harry grabbed the diary and dashed out of the office. He could hear Dobby’s squeals of pain receding around the corner. Quickly, wondering if this plan could possibly work, Harry took off one of his shoes, pulled off his slimy, filthy sock, and stuffed the diary into it. Then he ran down the dark corridor. 

He caught up with them at the top of the stairs. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he gasped, skidding to a halt, “I’ve got something for you —” 

And he forced the smelly sock into Lucius Malfoy’s hand.

“What the—?”

Mr. Malfoy ripped the sock off the diary, threw it aside, then looked furiously from the ruined book to Harry. 

“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harry Potter,” he said softly. “They were meddlesome fools, too.” 

He turned to go.

“Come, Dobby. I said, _come_.”

But Dobby didn’t move. He was holding up Harry’s disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure. “Master has given a sock,” said the elf in wonderment. “Master gave it to Dobby.”

“What’s that?” spat Mr. Malfoy. “What did you say?”

“Got a sock,” said Dobby in disbelief. “Master threw it, and Dobby caught it, and Dobby — Dobby is _free_.”

Lucius Malfoy stood frozen, staring at the elf. 

“You’ve lost me my servant, boy!” Fury curled around his words as he lunged at harry.

But Dobby shouted, “You shall not harm Harry Potter!”

There was a loud bang, and Mr. Malfoy was thrown backward. 

He crashed down the stairs, three at a time, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing below. He got up, his face livid, and pulled out his wand, but Dobby raised a long, threatening finger. 

“You shall go now,” he said fiercely, pointing down at Mr. Malfoy. “You shall not touch Harry Potter. You shall go now.” 

Lucius Malfoy had no choice. With a last, incensed stare at the pair of them, he swung his cloak around him and hurried out of sight. 

“Harry Potter freed Dobby!” said the elf shrilly, gazing up at Harry, moonlight from the nearest window reflected in his orb-like eyes. “Harry Potter set Dobby free!” 

“Least I could do, Dobby,” said Harry, a small smile breaking across his face. “Just promise never to try and save my life again.” 

The elf’s ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide, toothy smile. 

“I’ve just got one question, Dobby,” said Harry as Dobby pulled on Harry’s sock with shaking hands. “You told me all this had nothing to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well —” 

“It was a clue, sir,” said Dobby, his eyes widening, as though this was obvious. “Was giving you a clue. The Dark Lord, before he changed his name, could be freely named, you see?” 

“Right,” said Harry weakly. “Well…I’d better go.” 

Dobby threw his arms around Harry’s middle and hugged him. 

“Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew!” he sobbed. “Farewell, Harry Potter!” 

And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared. 

He turned to Dumbledore’s office, contemplating returning to ask him a few more questions, but he saw the Weasleys entering the door.

The pit in Harry’s stomach grew teeth. 

He turned around at started marching the other direction, not really with a destination in mind, just trying to get as far away from that office as possible.

Where should he go? Ron was still down in the Chamber, and he wasn’t sure either of them would want to talk anyways. Hermoine was surely awake by now…and he probably should give her a warm welcome back to awakness.

If she’d awoken yesterday he’d be ecstatic to go talk to her…but, at this particular moment, if he was being entirely honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to her, nor that he'd be capable of giving her the warm welcome she deserved. She’d have a million questions for him, none of which he was particularly inclined to answer at this moment.

It came to him that he didn’t want to talk to much of anyone right now. 

Just when he had that thought he saw Hermoine down the hall. Well, not so much saw her, as glimpsed her, then felt her arm around him. 

He was expecting her to happily ask what was going on, and where Ron was, but when she pulled away—(the hug was abnormally long)—he saw tears glinting in her eyes, and she said, with the air of someone who doesn’t know what else to say, “ _I’m so sorry, Harry._ ” 

He gave her a quizzical look and she answered his silent question: “Professor Snape told me everything before I left the hospital wing.”

Harry's eyes widened, before he hugged her again, far less tensely this time. He highly doubted he told her _everything_ , but, even so…Was he actually feeling grateful towards Snape for the _second_ time in the same day?

“I brought you this.” She held up the plate she was holding in her other hand as she pulled away. “I just thought…I wasn’t sure you’d want to go down eat with everyone else.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” and he really meant it, feeling true relief for the first time that day. 

“Should we head back to Gryffindor Tower?” 

He nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does Dumbledore call Ron? Is it "Ron" "Ronald" or "Mr Weasley"? I couldn't remember.  
> Also, what does Snape call Dumbledore? He calls him "Headmaster" right? Does that go for both when he's around students, and when he's alone with Dumbledore?


	8. Only in Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm so so sorry there was such a delay with this one! I was having a bit of a block with it. I hope you're still interested in reading!   
> I'm hoping the next one will be a bit faster, as it's one I've been excited for. Cross your fingers everybody!
> 
> By the way, I changed that thing I said I would in the Snape chapter! It's towards the end, when Snape's looking into Tom's mind. It's not a big deal if you don't want to check it out, but it is related to this chapter!
> 
> I hope you guys like it!! As always, it's your comments, and interest, that keep me writing!! <3

Tom stared up at the ceiling in the hospital wing, his hand behind his head, thinking about all that had happened…and some of what hadn’t happened.

Sometimes that was very dangerous thing to do indeed. 

An annoying woman by the name of ‘Madam Pomfrey’ kept periodically checking on him, and offering him food and medicine. He wouldn’t be surprised if she woke him in the middle of the night just to make sure he was sleeping well.

There was also a boy in the bed beside his. He kept asking him if he wanted to play a game with a strange name. Tom made it clear the only game he was interested in playing was one in which he shut up. 

When he had arrived with Snape earlier, a group of students were leaving. Apparently they had been ‘petrified.’ Whatever that meant. That made it sound like they’d been turned to stone, but they clearly were still flesh and blood—(maybe he would have preferred stone). 

Snape even pulled aside one of them—a girl with bushy hair. Tom tried to subtly listen, but Snape pulled her into another room, and Madam Pomfrey had deigned that moment as one of her thousand times to ask if he was comfortable.

Which left him here, with the annoying nurse, a boy who probably couldn’t hold in his own pee…and a lot of questions. 

So many things about this whole situation weren’t quite right. Waking up in that chamber with the dead girl, the way she died, the way Harry and Snape reacted to his presence, and Dumbledore’s later denial that he had killed her, or that their hatred was all that serious. And though Dumbledore had explained the diary, he wasn’t satisfied there either. Not to mention the fact that everything else in that Chamber still was unaccounted for. 

There were things they weren’t telling him. 

He highly doubted a teacher would be so vehement against just a bully, not to mention the fact that everyone else he’d met so far hadn’t recognized him…He had to be something more than that. 

There was something they weren’t telling him. In fact, he reasoned, there were probably a great lot of things. He wasn’t going to assume they were all on the same side just because they said so. 

The idea that this was a magic school, and that he was a student…He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it yet. They’d done magic in front of him, so he couldn’t deny it—not that he intended to. And the thought did send a certain energy through him…like that word was everything right in the world. And he was indeed excited to learn magic. Well, maybe ‘excited’ was too strong. But that was one of the few things that didn’t give him confusion, question and pause. Rather it create a form of what could only be called hunger within him. He wondered how proficient he had been at magic before he lost his memory. More than anything he wished he could remember the spells. 

He was sure he could figure this, them, out—maybe even tonight, if he just stayed awake a little longer. But he was more exhausted than he realized and, in the midst of his pondering, fell into dreams. 

_“Wait, mom!” His voice sounded strange, high and young…too high, too young. Almost girly._

_A plump woman with short red hair turned around at the last word._

_“What is it, Dear?!” She sounded a bit put out. “Are you ready to go?”_

_“I’m missing my Charms book!” Tom’s voice was pained. “Have you seen it?”_

_She gave a forced exhale. “And you’re sure you checked your room? Didn’t miss any corners?” She inclined her head. “You’re sure it’s not sitting on your nightstand?”_

_“Yes! That was the first place I checked!”_

_“You checked under the bed?”_

_“Yes!”_

_“The bookshelves and wardrobe?”_

_“_ Yes! _”_

_She sighed. “Talk to your father, Fear.”_

_“Did you say you were missing a Charms book?” A boy about his age with red hair like their mother’s came in front of him, along with an identical copy of him._

_“We wouldn’t know anything about it, sure.”_

_“We’re just a little concerned”_

_“Of course, for our—” The last word got blurred._

_“Boys. You didn’t take”—He was sure she said his name, but for some reason the word became murky, as if she was trying to speak through a veil of water—“Charms book, did you?”_

_“What?”_

_“No!”_

_“Never!_

_“You know us, Mom, would we ever do something so terrible as steal a poor”—Another blurred word—“—’s charms book?”_

_“We’re good and virtuous boys.”_

_Tom looked at the woman who was apparently his mother, who gave him a knowing look. “Check your brothers’ room.”_

_The dream turned over, and now he was standing on a platform in front of a glimmering red train engine, the words ‘Hogwarts Express’ emblazoned on the front. Steam poured out from its many orifices, and it whistled with the shrillness of a bird being squeezed…though the sound was like music to his ears._

_That wasn’t the only loud noise, in fact this place was extremely loud indeed. The whole platform was full to bustling with children, parents, and as many other assorted relatives as it could hold. But the strangest thing was, he wasn’t annoyed by their presence. He was feeling many things: nervousness to leave his parents, and about what house he’d get sorted into, and if the other kids would like him, and excitement, excitement for what the castle would be like, what house he’d get into, what the classes would be like, what friends he’d make…but no annoyance._

_Perhaps more than anything there was a pit in his stomach about Harry and Ron. Were they okay? Why didn’t they get through the barrier? He had been so excited to ride the Express with them. His parents tried to assure him they’d be fine, but he could hear the fear lining their voices too. He tried to let the sight of the engine distract him, and the excitement about the coming year overpower him. They’d gotten safely through crazy situations before._

_He gave his parents a giant hug, and his mom kissed him many times, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to cry. They told him everything would be fine, and gave him a number of quick quips of advice. He looked towards the engine, about to take his first steps towards it on his own._

_The dream crossed over itself, and though he was on the same platform, he was alone._

_Well, not alone alone, it was just as loud as before, and there were just as many passersby. Not the same people, still. But this time, the sound was muffled somehow, like he couldn’t completely hear or feel what was going on around him. Just a few loud shouts would break through, and each time they did, annoyance would strike him._

_There were no parents to wish him luck, or kiss him goodbye. No brothers to steal his books._

_Did he like it better that way?_

_He looked down at his robes, and felt satisfaction run through him. They were clean and sleek and new. The first clothes he’d had that fit that description in a long time. None of the other kids got those. Well, none of the other kids could do magic either. He was special._

_Just satisfaction. Not really excitement or nervousness…Just that hunger. That hunger for magic, for prowess, for a better world. Nothing compared to the bursting geysers of emotion he’d felt moments ago._

_He looked up at the engine, a small smile lining his features as he stepped up to enter it._

Tom woke up to the hospital room, and went from teetering to falling off the bed. 

And for a brief moment he was dizzy with unsurity; unsurity of where, or even who he was. 

After he took a moment to right himself, the questions restarted themselves: 

Was that just a dream? Or were those his memories? 

They can’t have been, could they? He didn’t wake in a flurry of remembrance of all the memories preceding and following those. Besides, Dumbledore had told him his family was dead.

Although the final dream, or memory, was so different from the first two…Maybe that was from another year, and explained what had happened to his family?

He could tell from context they _were_ his family, at least at some point. Yet he didn’t recognize them, or remember their names, or much of anything else about them. 

Yet…

Yet, at the remembrance of their images, waves of emotion crossed over him, mostly comprised of loss, and longing. He didn’t know where those waves could have hailed from, when he didn’t remember or care for these people. But something inside himself wanted all this to stop.

It overwhelmed him. He wanted to brush it off…but stayed on the ground, leaning against the wall, digging his nails into his shirt. 

He tried to feel normal…or even remember what normal was. He thought he felt normal most of the day. Right now he didn’t feel like…himself. 

A line of light reached its hands out to him, and he looked up to see the door to Madam Pomfrey’s room open slightly. She must have heard him fall off the bed—(did she have owl hearing? The other kid was still snoring like a troll). Meeting her eyes was a mistake, because she gave a small gasp, and ran over to him with the speed of a rocket powered penguin.

As she helped him up, she quickly began bombarding him numerous questions, comforts, and recommendations—

“I’m _FINE!_ ” he yelled, pushing her hand away—(the other kid’s snores abruptly stopped, but he didn’t wake)— “Stop pestering me, Woman!”

Her eyes widened, apparently so shocked a student would speak this way to her, that for a moment she couldn’t speak. And at that look, before she could scold him, he muttered. 

“I’m…sorry.” 

The words just came out, he didn’t really think about it. But as his tongue traced the words he tasted iron. 

“My dreams weren’t very pleasant,” he added. “That’s all.”

She still proceeded to berate him heavily for his behavior, and checked more than once that his dreams really were the only problem, but he could barely hear her. He couldn’t stop thinking about how strange it was that, after all the foreignness both the day and the night had to offer, the most foreign experience of all that day, was the feeling of those two words leaving his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom: *feels an emotion*  
> Tom’s brain: !Error! Commencing system shutdown!


End file.
